Weakness and the Sakura
by Unclear Destiny
Summary: To this day, he stares out the window, glaring at them. But he turns away, every time, and it angers him so. Hisoka POV Pls RR


Disclaimer: No ownies. Unless you want five dollars, some chips mad a spoon, then feel free.

xxxxxxxxx

He stared.

Petals blew gently in the mild wind, dancing in front of the window before moving on, swift and soundly.

Like the wind itself.

It was enrapturing, the way the fragile pink blooms would break apart and dance in tiny zephyrs, trailing others in their wake, without a care in the world.  
They simply broke away, danced and glided and twirled in the breeze, free for a single moment before their lives were snipped. When the wind died, they died with the wind.  
It was why, he supposed, that despite the nature of the memories the sakura blooms left him with, shuddering and huddling and, in weakness, crying in dismay and terror, that he simply could not, would not hate them.

However, that left him no reason not be annoyed with them, though more annoyed at his weakness was probably more accurate.

No, not annoyed. Furious with his weakness, this hindering quality that would just not leave him alone and let him be what he would. Furious with himself for giving into that weakness and how, no matter what he did, it would come back to haunt him.

In dreams and in nightmares, in waking reality and in every touch this weakness would hurt him and he would remember, in passing if he was lucky, just what had happened that night.

The night that he, too, had died with the wind and the sakura blossoms.

Tearing his gaze away from the blooms, he shivered then scowled, nearly growling under his breath. Glaring at his desk as he took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself, he closed his eyes and this time, he made no attempt to hide is growl.

He knew that, tonight, he would relive, again and again the part of his life that made him so weak. Not life with the Kurosakis', no. His hatred of them made him strong and he had stopped crying in grief over them long ago. Nevermind that his cell in the basement had left him afraid, afraid of the dark. No, that was merely another hindrance that made him weak, made him silly, made him feel stupid when he stuttered and glanced around his dark room in askance of comfort, shivering beneath his covers. A weakness that made the sky blue walls of his room transform into the night-

The Night.

That night.

The night when he-.

He stopped, again, and he growled, again.

It was no matter though. Tonight, he would relive this thing that made him weak. He would scream and thrash in his bed, like a weakling as he begged for mercy at his nightmare attacker, the time when he had thrown his pride to the wind.

His pride.

The one thing that made him strong besides his anger and his hatred. The one thing that he thought he could depend on eternally when all else failed.

But then he had thrown it away and grovelled at the feet of a man, pleading and begging like a common whelp.

But he was not a common whelp. No, he was a Kurosaki! He was supposed to be strong, infallible, omniscient in all ways.

He was supposed have pride and rely on that pride.

Bucket loads of pride!

But then that night-and then in the fire...

Twice he had thrown away his pride and begged and grovelled.

And he would relive both of those nights...But the second time...When he had thrown away himself and all he depended on to plead and cry again for mercy but in a different way...

It were as if... As if a phoenix from ancient mythology had taken his place, and he had been reborn in that fire instead of dying a second time.

But was it a good thing?

Opening his eyes again refocused, he glared out the window and at the sakura blossoms that had been his companions when he had been-That Night.

Glared at them as if daring them to whisper at him and make fun of him and make him relive _That_!  
Sighing, he turned away, from his own choice this time and not necessity. He would not rob them of their one-time pleasures as he had been so robbed of his when-That Night.  
He would have nightmares again, and he would scream again and he would beg again as he was stripped of all dignity again, and again, and again.

He would-he would feel his body betray him and-That night.

And eventually, he would face That Night, and he would face Muraki and then all his grief would be cast aside and his weakness would be gone.

He would face it. He would. And then he would be free. Then he could look out the window without cringing, and he could eye the traditional mens kimonos and yukatas hidden in his closet without shivering and turning away, and he would be able to touch and be touched and he could watch his favourite blooms in the night and maybe again he could dance with them as they chanced with the-

No, that was childish. But still, the things he could do if he were free!

Opening his eyes and staring pensively at the desk, he absently felt his empathy quiver and so did not react when a firm chocolaty hand rested on his shoulder. Instead, he merely looked up and met stunning iris.

When he was free if this weakness...

He tilted his head and watched as his friend, his companion, his partner blinked quizzically at him. After all, rarely did he show such gestures of, well, anything.

But...

The fire, black and hot and stifling. Burning him as he lay within strong (But so weak, ever so fragile) arms and then cooled as shadows raced and covered them...

Looking at the hand on his shoulder, he stared.

He didn't...necessarily have to be alone, did he?

xxxxxxx

Have you ever felt the need to just write? That niggling feeling in your head to get something down, even if you don't know what it is?

Well, this would be a product of such. I suppose that perhaps I'm trying to cop with me own new weakness, which frustrates me entirely. And that is of cars. And trucks. And jeeps. And vans. And especially riding in them. And walking around them.

And crosswalks. Those scare the beejesus outta me now.

Last month. Got hit by a truck. He was doing thirty. Hit me straight on, sent me flying six feet. Nothing broken. Except me love of long car rides.

I hate it. It's annoying and aggravating and it makes me cry and gasp and do other such stoopid things.

And so now I gotta cope with this new phobia, and weakness in part. I suppose that, as in a way I can relate, I just did this.

Was done to 24 Hours by Jem. Wonderfully emotionally wrought music and great to listen to. I suggest you have a listen.


End file.
